Standing in the center of the wheelhouse, he studied the ship’s progress on a navigation monitor.
“Engine back two-thirds,” he ordered the helmsman. “We’re forty miles from Manavgat. No use in us arriving before daybreak since the pumping facility won’t be manned any earlier.”
The helmsman repeated the order as the speed was reduced on the ship’s single engine. Riding high on the sea with an empty hold, the tanker gradually slowed from twelve knots to eight. As midnight approached a few hours later, the executive officer appeared on deck to relieve the captain. Hammet took a final scan of the radar system before turning in.
“There’s a vessel coming up behind us off our port flank, but otherwise the seas are clear,” he told the exec. “Just keep us off the beach, Zev.”
“Yes, Captain,” the man replied. “No midnight swims tonight.”
Hammet retired to his cabin a deck below and quickly fell asleep. But he awoke a short time later, feeling something amiss. Shaking away the cobwebs, he realized that the ship’s engine was not throbbing and shuddering through the deck as usual when under way. He thought it odd that no one had come to wake him if there was a navigational problem or mechanical issue with the ship.
Slipping on a bathrobe, the captain exited his cabin and climbed a stairwell up to the bridge. Stepping into the darkened wheelhouse, Hammet froze in shock. A few feet in front of him, the executive officer was lying facedown in a small pool of blood.
“What’s going on here?” he barked at the helmsman.
The helmsman stared back at him in wide-eyed silence. Under the dimmed lights of the bridge, Hammet could see that the young man had an ugly gash across the side of his face. The captain’s vision was suddenly diverted out the forward window, where he noticed the lights of another vessel shining dangerously close to the tanker’s port beam.
“Hard right rudder!” he shouted at the helmsman, ignoring a rustling behind him.
A tall figure emerged from the back wall, dressed in black, with an ebony ski mask covering his head and face. In his hands, he held an assault rifle, which he raised to shoulder height. The helmsman ignored Hammet’s command, merely staring as the gunman stepped closer. Hammet turned and looked just in time to see the rifle whipping toward his face. He heard the crash of the gun’s stock strike him on the side of the jaw an instant before a flash of pain surged through him like a bolt of lightning. He felt his knees buckle, and then the pain vanished as everything turned to black and he joined his executive officer flat on the deck.
54
“Ridley, my friend, come in, come in.”
The Fat Man’s voice sounded like sand in a mixer as he welcomed Bannister into his Tel Aviv apartment for the second time in as many weeks.
“Thank you, Oscar,” the archaeologist replied, strutting in with an air of confidence that had been notably lacking on his last visit.
Gutzman led him to a sitting area, where a thin, well-dressed Arab sat at a nearby desk, reviewing some documents. He looked up, eyeing Bannister with a suspicious stare.
“That is Alfar, one of my curators,” Gutzman said with a derisive wave of his hand. Catching a look of caution in Bannister’s face, he added, “Do not worry. His ears are safe.”
Gutzman reached his favorite sitting chair and tumbled into it without grace.
“Now, what is of such importance that you have called on me again so soon?” he asked.
Bannister spoke quietly, buttering up his victim for the kill.
“Oscar, you know as well as I that hunting for history is at best a speculative business. We may search for days, weeks, or even years for that one monumental discovery and still come up empty. Sure, along the way there may be important finds and occasionally the exciting piece that taps the imagination. Most of the effort usually ends up going for naught. But there is always the chance of that rare instance where the stars are in alignment and one is very, very lucky to find a singular gift from the heavens.”
He leaned forward in his chair for effect and stared into the Fat Man’s eyes.
“Oscar, I believe I may be on the verge of such a find.”
“Well, what is it, my boy?” Gutzman wheezed. “Don’t toy with me.”
“I was just in London for a short visit and happened to call on an antiquities dealer I’ve known for a number of years. He recently acquired a cache of items stolen years ago from the Church of England’s archives,” he lied, pausing, again for effect.
“Go on.”
“A portion of the material contained original artwork, jewelry, and artifacts liberated from the Holy Land during the Crusades.” Bannister looked cautiously back and forth across the room, then added in a low voice, “Included in the works was an original copy of the Manifest.”
Gutzman’s eyes inflated like balloons.
“Are… are you serious?” he rasped. He tried to contain his excitement, but his face turned flush with exaltation.
“Yes,” Bannister replied, producing an intentionally poor photocopy of the papyrus document. “I have not seen the original myself, but I’ve been assured that it is authentic.”
Gutzman studied the page for several minutes without uttering a word. Only the ruffling of the page in his unsteady fingers disturbed the silent room.
“It exists,” he finally said in a hushed tone. “I cannot believe by God’s good graces that it has come to be.” The old man then looked at Bannister sternly. “This dealer, he will sell it to me?”
Bannister nodded. “Given the nature of his acquisition, he is forced to sell it quietly. That is why he has priced it at only five million pounds sterling.”
“Five million pounds!” Gutzman cursed, propelling himself into a coughing fit. When he recovered his breath, he stared into Bannister’s eyes.
“I will never pay that,” he said, finding a strong voice.
Bannister paled slightly, not anticipating the response. “I suspect the price may be negotiable, Oscar,” he stuttered. “And the dealer indicated he would have the document carbon-dated at his expense.”
Having purchased artifacts from grave robbers to politicians, Gutzman knew how to get his price. More than that, he knew when he was being played, and the hesitation in Bannister’s voice did not go undetected.
“Stay here,” the Fat Man said, rising unsteadily from his chair and leaving the room.
He returned a moment later with a thick binder. Gutzman sat down and opened it, revealing a collection of photographs encased in plastic sleeves. Ancient artifacts of assorted age and style, large and small, appeared in the photographs. Bannister recognized statues, carvings, and pottery that he knew were worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Gutzman flipped to the back of the binder, then removed several photos and handed them to Bannister.
“Take a look at these,” the Fat Man huffed.
“Part of your collection?”
“Yes, from my storehouse in Portugal.”
Bannister studied the photos. The first showed a small collection of rusty swords and spear tips. The second photo showed an iron military helmet that Bannister recognized as a Roman Heddernheim type. A thin bronze panel containing the image of an eagle, a scorpion, and several crowns appeared in the next photo. The final image was of an object undistinguishable to Bannister. It appeared to be a large, angular mass of metal that was twisted and warped on one side.
“A rare collection of Roman armament,” Bannister said. “I’m guessing the eagle and scorpion reliefs are part of a battle standard?”
“Very good, Ridley. It’s not just any standard, however, but the emblem for the
Bannister studied the photograph again but shook his head.
